Transitions
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Complete! Continues from the No Exit. House leave rehab. Very much explores House's relationship with Cuddy.
1. Chapter 1

Fire and Rain

Chapter 1

"Anytime, Dr. House, you want to talk. Give me a call: Night or day. Can be completely off the clock." He couldn't help it. The James Taylor lyrics drifted through his head. The stint in rehab was over. Twenty-eight days. It would take six months for the 'atta boy' platitudes to stop ringing in his ears.

"_You just call out my name, and you know wherever I and I'll come runnin'…"_

He had no doubt. Catherine Harrington had been a friend. And a wise doctor. At least in House's estimation. She'd found out two weeks into his rehab. Of course he should have realized that she'd find out, and maybe somewhere in the back reaches of his mind he did. A trip off campus for his court appearance; a night in jail for contempt: go directly to drug testing do not pass security guard before depositing a specimen. Then wait for the inevitable summons.

House had observed her as he entered Catherine's office. He anticipated the disappointment he would surely discover in her eyes.. Would serve her right, he rationalized to himself, for having too-high expectations. "My friends have no expectations of me. Makes it easier that way." He had been more honest than the group facilitator knew that first time.

"You should have come to me." She said it quietly, with no judgment in her tone. Just sadness, almost guilt. Like she had somehow failed him.

When it came right down to it, it was the morphine pump that triggered it. Two days and he knew it would not work. Yeah, he reasoned, it might take the pain's razor edge off to the same level as the Vicodin, but no better.

In truth, House could stand not one more outward reminder. The scar, the cane, the limp. They were more than enough. His life was more than enough out of his control. The thought of a lifetime tethered to mechanical device, no matter how small was more than his psyche could really handle.

"You would have insisted I try longer, and I couldn't do that."

"You don't know that." He grimaced at her. Yes. He did. "But the acetaminophen…"

"I'll be careful…more careful. Just for you. I'll check my eyes every morning and if they're yellow…I'll get myself listed for a new liver." She knew he was lying, of course. And he knew that she knew it. But she also couldn't say for sure that he was wrong.

"It's only a small pump."

"Yeah, well it'll screw with my sex life." She nodded. He smiled. "Well, it'll be one more thing that'll screw with my sex life. Don't want to scare off any more hookers than…" And then she understood. It wasn't the pump. It was what it said about him; what it did to him.

And now he sat in his discharge meeting, just he and Catherine. And then…freedom: from platitudes; from the McNeil Rehab Facility; from Tritter; from Catherine Harrington, whose understanding of him both unnerved him and intrigued him. Although he was pretty sure that the intrigued part was some sort of variation on the Stockholm syndrome.

"…I'll be writing your scrips."

"Why? You're a shrink. This is, if you hadn't noticed, a pain problem."

"Your pain doc is attached to Columbia, not Princeton. It would be inconvenient to have him write for you from New York."

"I have…"

"Had. It's not a good idea to have your best friend be your prescribing physician."

"It's worked so far!" A protest, slightly more than half-hearted. He knew he was going to lose this skirmish, at least. Catherine arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I can't believe you said that! Even you."

"Fine." White flag raised. She was all business this morning.

"If you begin to feel that you need to increase your dosage, call me before you do it on your own. Or call Kwan, if you'd prefer." She realized that it sounded like she was advising an alcoholic to call his mentor before taking that fateful first drink. It's not what she meant to say. Not really. "We'll need to do another liver panel. See if your liver can tolerate the increase…or whether we need to supplement the Vicodin with something not containing acetaminophen."

"Nice cover." She reddened.

"Also, we need to deal with breakthrough pain. Kwan sent over a rescue kit." She opened the nylon pouch. Syringes, three vials of morphine sulfate, alcohol swabs and tourniquet. House arched an eyebrow, smiling sardonically.

"What every junkie needs…" To say he was surprised would have been an understatement.

"Dr. House…"

"It was a joke." Uttered dry as a bone left out in the sun for 10 years.

A silence, awkward, permeated the small office. Catherine's deep brown eyes softened. "Here it comes…" The thought darted through House's mind in bleak anticipation.

"I'd like to keep on meeting with you. I think…"

"Rehab's over. I thought that's what this meeting was about." She saw that all the shutters were back up and iron bars installed around them.

"I think…" She sighed. "I believe that…Talking, like we have over the last month…"

"Please don't patronize me."

"Fine." Her voice sounded slightly indignant, exasperated. "Fine. I think that you'e benefited from our sessions. You've been able to talk about things, by your own admission, that you have never talked about. With anyone. But as you know. Four weeks of therapy isn't enough…" House held up a hand.

"I don't know if I can…I need to be able to…I need my mind clear of…" House groped for the right words to explain honestly what he was feeling. He couldn't focus on himself and be the brilliant diagnostician? He needed to separate his feelings from his job? And pushing his emotions to the far reaches of his psyche was his best ally, not his worst enemy—at least as far as his work was concerned? The sense of it was indistinct, and he was therefore having difficulty articulating his thoughts.

"Think about it. I'll schedule an appointment for you for this time next week." She wrote out a card. "I have another office on 7, where I see private patients. If you show up, great. If not, I'll take that as my answer. If you want to reschedule the appointment, call my secretary. The number is on the card. Continuing counseling with me is not a requirement to my writing scrips for you. It's separate. I do think it will help. I feel that you will continue to have a tendency to abuse the Vicodin—use it to help with your non-physical issues. That's not going to go away without therapy. With me or someone else. And someday, you might have a repeat of what happened Christmas Eve…" House been listening to her with some disdain. He was tired of the pitch. He simply wanted to leave and go back to his life (such as it was). At the reminder of Christmas eve, he sighed. Catherine observed him, stopping.

"It won't happen again because I won't be put in that position again and…"

"That's such bullshit, Dr. House. How do you know that? Or what if something else comes at you that you can't handle and all the defensive barriers and moats and iron bars you can erect won't stop the pain…or won't stop the hurting. And you're right back there, maybe not with Oxy; maybe with morphine and a syringe…" She glanced down at the rescue kit, now closed and sitting on House's lap. He voice had become impassioned and angry…and sad. Catherine handed House the card, which he tucked into his shirt pocket.

"Are we done?" Catherine sighed again, extending her hand, which House took.

"Thank you Dr. Harrington." House stood. Catherine watched as House left silently. She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer: "Please…heal his body; heal his soul; keep him safe…"


	2. Chapter 2

Transitions

Chapter 2

House unlocked his office door and walked in. The blinds were drawn and the office was dark despite the mid-morning hour. The conference room was likewise darkened, meaning that his team were elsewhere engaged. Probably the clinic. They'd love that, he was sure: all those sick people to fix and send home.

He meandered the space, glancing at the mail on his desk. It had been opened and neatly stacked into several piles: consult requests; speaking engagement requests; medical journals; articles for peer review and bills. Cameron's work, of course. House mindlessly picked up the first journal in the stack and sat heavily in his Eames chair.

Eyes closed, House massaged his right thigh. He had to confess that the Vicodin dosage Kwan had put him wasn't quite as effective as he'd hoped, but it was better than being tethered to a morphine pump. It was, all in all, a fair compromise, he thought, as he drifted off.

It had been a brutal six months: a roller coaster ride with no safety belt, and then a free fall. The landing had not been soft, but he had survived. Again. More, or less.

In a way, the weeks of rehab after the Tritter mess had gone away were a haven. He had long since tuned out the group therapy banality and learned to smile insipidly. He would respond in clichés leave the leader and participants with phony insights that reeked of sincerity but were far from honest. A parlor game. He was sure that had he asked, Catherine would have freed him from having to attend, given his situation, but why bother when it was so much fun.

The team had finally left him alone. No more trips up to McNeil for consults. He was pretty sure they were all on clinic duty anyway.

House knew he would have to deal with Cameron. Her dewy romanticism and willingness to accept a patient's words unchallenged cost that young firefighter a lifetime's worth of memories and maybe his career. But House knew that he had also failed. He had failed to question their work; their suppositions, their data. Had he not been puking his brains out every half hour and off his own game, he might have saved…

Wilson and Cuddy, too, had left him in peace to deal with…things. No more nagging from Wilson; glares from Cuddy. But he knew it had only been a temporary reprieve. He wondered how much of that reprieve was Harrington's doing. House hated to admit it, even to himself, but she was OK. She had handled the Vicodin thing pretty well; except for firing Voldemort. Served him right though, dealing drugs to people in rehab! What a sleaze…

She did seem to understand that his problems had more to do with pain than with pills, and for that, he was grateful. She had disarmed and unnerved him over the weeks, slicing through his armor with a laser-driven precision scalpel. On the other hand, House considered, he certainly wasn't at his defensive best: hurting, sick and besieged. Maybe he was an easier mark he might have otherwise been.

She had told him it was good to talk about "it" whatever "it" was. So far, he hadn't seen any evidence to support her theory. Nothing had changed, and some things are better left unexplored. Forever.

Voices emanating from the outer office snapped House from his thoughts. He sighed at the inevitable "welcome home's" and pats on the back from the various quarters. He swiveled the Eames chair towards the wall, hoping that, with the light off, they would leave him unnoticed.

The urge to be outside seized him unexpectedly. House had been penned in for weeks and the indoor atmosphere felt suddenly oppressive. He waited impatiently, restlessly, and out of their sight. After a seeming eternity, he heard their pagers sound and, as if on cue, they exited, creating the opportunity to follow suit.

House grabbed his pea coat from the coat tree in the outer office and made his way out of hospital through a rear exit. It was cold, but not bone-chillingly so. Bracing, but not abrasive. The sun was out and there was no wind to speak of. The oppressiveness of the past several weeks seemed to lift from his shoulders, and had his leg been willing to forego its constant distress signals to his brain, House might have felt elated. But elated was not a state of possibility for House. Not in months. Not since August had come and gone. And with it any second chances. Or third.

House rarely came to this part of campus in winter. Maintenance was shoddy at best and snow or ice usually covered the paths at this time of the year, which would make it too treacherous to maneuver by himself. He preferred to keep this place his own—and private, so walking here with Wilson…or anyone, for that matter, was out of the question. He'd never even been there with Stacy. He had run there all summer and into the early fall. But had avoided this particular park once he…once he had stopped running.

It had been a mild winter. Must be that global warming thing that doesn't exist, mused House darkly. The paths were clear through the park and his favorite bench was clear of snow ice and other persons. He realized quite unexpectedly that he had actually missed coming to this secluded little haven. Even if he couldn't run there.

He sat, wishing momentarily that he had thought to put on gloves or his hat, neither of which, of course, had been in his office. His leg, too, had begun to mildly protest the cold. He lifted it, propping it on the bench.

It was from here that House would watch the living world: people falling in and out of love; fighting, laughing, playing Frisbee. It hurt, in its own way, as inevitably, Stacy's image entered his consciousness and he could almost see her own wildly thrown disc coming towards him. Sitting there, alone on his bench, was the only time outside his own flat, that he felt he could let his guard take a much deserved coffee break and allow his thoughts to break free and wander unchecked. For better or worse.

There wasn't much to observe in the middle of winter. Few students ventured out to this park: too far from the center of campus. But it was still a good place to be alone. And the cold, though uncomfortable, helped to make him feel alive.

A case is what he really needed. Get right back into it. No time for answering inane questions about how he was feeling: Did the rehab help? Are you going to continue with your therapist? Attend Narcotics Anonymous? (And it was the inevitable question, probably to be asked by Wilson, the answer to which would be simple, straightforward and honest: "No fucking way in hell.") But he hadn't come all the way out here to reminisce with himself about rehab. He had come to get away from that. To…

He saw her approach, emerging from the sun's glare, aglow. A halo surrounded her. An irony not lost on House. Who would she be, this vision, this time? Angel or devil? His rescuer or his destroyer? Her swift pace and tense body language made her seem not benevolent. No angel today. House sighed as Cuddy reached the bench. She stood, hands on hips waiting for him to move his leg and give her room to sit.

She had been his rescuer. He still was not sure why she had done it. Had perjured herself, had risked her career and her freedom for him. They hadn't spoken since that afternoon when she stood poised at his jail cell, furious. She owned him.

"You're a fool, you know." He stared ahead, unable to look at her.

"So I've been told. By Wilson, in fact, several times in the past…" she glanced at the date on her wristwatch. "…three weeks." She refused to look his way as well and he couldn't tell easily if she had come all the way out here just to yell at him. Or worse, to give him a pep talk of some sort.

"Look. I'm a big boy. I can play outside by myself."

"Yeah. I can see that. Frostbite becomes you. I meant what I said. I own you." There was no mirth in her voice, no irony to soften the severity of her decree.

"Thank you, Cuddy." He caught sight of a hawk floating against the sapphire of the sky. It functioned well as a way to avoid her glare. "But I still don't know 'why'."

"I couldn't sign the death sentences of all those patients whose lives you wouldn't have saved from your jail cell."

"That isn't even close to the truth."

"Or yours." She had said it so quietly, he nearly missed it. For an instant they were caught in each other's eyes, and then it was over, each distracted (gratefully) by something less intimidating at which to gaze. "Clinic duty," she continued, finding her voice. "You will not only do your regular rotation, but be on call to fill in…unless you are directly involved in patient care…three days a week. Your other choice is to teach a class in diagnostics to third-years as well as a seminar for post-docs. Three mornings a week. The on-call time will go away in that case. Not your regular clinic time, however. And one more thing. We are co-hosting an international conference on genetically altered viruses in June. I want you on the faculty for that." Cuddy stood to go.

"Walk back with me. You're going to freeze without gloves or a hat." Her voice had softened, almost imperceptibly. He nodded. House had been sitting too long in the cold. His leg had stiffened; he was overdue for another pill. He perceived Cuddy watching him as he popped a Vicodin into his mouth.

"Give me a minute." She observed him, the way he moved. He was hurting, that was clear. She turned away from him, offering him a moment of privacy. She didn't realize just how much she was giving him, and how grateful he was at the gesture. Finally able to stand, he still wasn't sure on his feet. Cuddy offered him her right arm and they headed back together.


	3. Chapter 3

Transitions

Chapter 3

"So how did you know where to find me?" He was slightly annoyed that she had, in fact, found him. But he was also genuinely curious.

"I didn't get to be dean of medicine by not knowing stuff. And contrary to what you might think, I'm not an idiot…"

"I never said…"

"No, but you think it. Besides, I hired you…"

"Case in point. Mind if we stop for a minute?" House eyed a park bench. Concern flashed in Cuddy's eyes. It wasn't like House to admit, for a second even, that he needed to stop. She shook her head and headed towards the bench.

She observed his face, especially his eyes. And she wondered how much of the pain he was concealing. Or rather trying to. They had walked about half a mile. It was probably too far for him, given the cold, even newly dosed on the Vicodin, but they didn't have far to go. "You just took a Vicodin." There was no accusation in her voice, only concern. He shrugged as he looked into the distance, hating both the situation and, in that moment, Cuddy as well.

"Why did you do the ketamine treatment? I was barely alive when I told Cameron; hardly in my right mind. But you did it anyway." Cuddy was momentarily stunned at the question. They had never discussed it afterwards, and then within a few weeks, it had seemed inappropriate to even mention it to him.

"I…I'd known you were researching it; we'd discussed it and I… When I walked into the ER and saw you lying there, I…" Cuddy's eyes filled with tears at the memory and she looked away.. She had never gone back to that moment, even when alone. He had been lying lifelessly on the gurney, covered in blood. Everyone was covered in his blood: Cameron, Foreman, Chase. The red of it contrasted to the paleness of his skin. "When Cameron told me what you had said…She said you were delirious and had been mumbling through your unconsciousness…You had lost so much blood. I wanted…" Cuddy struggled with and regained her composure. He deserved to know.

"I saw an opportunity to give you back what I helped to steal from you. I wouldn't have done it, had you and I not talked about it—had you not asked Cameron to tell me. Delirious or not, there was a reason you asked. If I had known how temporary…"

"That wasn't your fault…" House watched the red-tailed Hawk as zeroed in on a target from high in the sky. "You had no idea… On the other hand…" His voice turned bitter as he trailed off, not wanting to tread upon more recent schemes. Not today.

"When I was shot…" House sucked in a breath as he noted the lack of feeling in his fingers. "I think we better go in. You'll freeze your ass off. Not to mention the boobs. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

"I could go for a chai tea." She motioned to the Starbucks at the edge of the park, and just across the street from the hospital. In truth, she didn't want him to drop what he had begun to say. He needed to talk about it. So did she. But not in the hospital. He nodded, anticipating the warmth that would seep into his fingers.

A triple espresso for House and a venti Chai latte for Cuddy. The Starbucks was deserted mid-morning and they settled into easy chairs. House eased his right leg onto the ottoman, sighing at the relief. Cuddy awkwardly sought the words that would bring House back to the topic he'd begun back on the bench.

"You were saying." House looked momentarily bewildered, when he realized what she meant. The moment had passed, in his mind. He closed his eyes letting the warmth from the cardboard coffee cup return the feeling to his fingers. He shivered. "House? You were talking about when you were shot." Another prompt. Unheeded. Cuddy sigh. A different tack.

"When you came out of surgery…after the shooting… All I could think of was 'what would House do?' I knew the ketamine was dangerous; I knew it was likely temporary, and that doing it I could…if it was temporary…that it could be worse than doing nothing at all. But it was what you wanted, even knowing the risks. Everyone thought I was crazy, and I was. Had I known…" House opened one eye, looking at her. "Wilson told me I was being selfish to do it. He accused me of trying to assuage my own guilt for what happened with your leg in the first place. He was right." House grimaced.

"It was what I had asked for, Cuddy. With my _informed_ consent. It wasn't your fault that it didn't last. I had to try it, Cuddy. It was my choice. My right…"

"But you were delirious. You had lost a lot of blood. You weren't in a state to…"

"Yes. If we hadn't talked about it before. Absolutely right. But we had…" House's voice had become agitated. He stopped, consciously lowering it, trying to keep his frustration out of it.

"But you had been concerned about the procedure. What it could do to you cognitively. To your brain…the long-term effects. You weren't sure…"

"I'd hallucinated. The loss of blood, the trauma…as I was lying on the floor. I had another choice. One that was only mine to make." This was getting into treacherous territory for House. He didn't want to sound morbid – or melodramatic. "Part of me…There was a …It would have been so easy for me to simply drown in the comfort of it. The pain was gone. Just gone. There was a euphoria I felt in simply being without pain. For the first time in years. Somewhere in my brain I knew that it was in reality the fact that I was seriously injured…But I wasn't sure…Maybe I didn't want…"

Cuddy's eyes again moistened at his admission. She knew him well enough to understand what he was trying to say. He had chosen to fight for his own life. He had chosen life. But he had also chosen to try to have a life without pain. Even at the risk of losing some of his genius. It explained a lot. It had been a rare moment of optimism for him and it was betrayed, not only by the failure of the treatment, but by the actions of people he trusted to understand. She felt suddenly ashamed. Did Wilson know any of this, she wondered?

"House." She reached over and touched his hand. It was still cold. "I never told you how sorry I was about the Ketamine; about what Wilson and I…"

"Don't." He interrupted. He wasn't good at this. It was over. Past history: so there was no point anymore. He shook off the feeling. "I mean, unless of course, there's a corresponding reduction in clinic hours; teaching…any of it will do." He knew the answer, of course. And her 11th hour rescue of him in court was more than he could ever acknowledge, much less repay (despite her motives). But it never hurt to try.

"Yeah. Right. She glanced at her watch. You're late anyway. Shoulda been in the clinic half an hour ago."

"I was just discharged. I'm not even due back at work until tomorrow," he protested lightly.

"Yeah, well…with all those hours you're going to owe me, no time like the present to get on it." He gave her a sour look, but it had no real anger in it.

"Great. At least it will keep me away…" Unwilling make another admission, he stopped. He just wasn't ready to face his staff. Maybe the clinic was just what he needed. Mindlessness and strangers. The clinic never looked so attractive.


	4. Chapter 4

Transitions

Chapter 4

It was nearly five, and out of the corner of her eye, Cuddy spied House just leaving exam 2. He'd been in the clinic nearly five hours. She thought it might be a record for him. She watched him sigh as he reluctantly took another patient file from the stack, glancing at it. She approached, snatching it from him, nearly causing him to lose his balance. She had only meant to get his attention.

House was exhausted. He had been confined to a relatively small space for a month. His morning walk had been stupid; he hadn't considered that he might actually have to work on his first day of freedom. His leg had been agony all afternoon, and now, whoever had caused him to nearly fall on his ass… His anger deflated only slightly when he saw that it was Cuddy.

"Enough, House. Go home. Go to your office. Somewhere. You're done." She was well aware that he was hiding out in the clinic. Here, he could be the anonymous, albeit bad-tempered, doctor. No colleagues; no questions; no prying, no perceived pity. It was classically predictable House behavior.

"I'm going for a personal record. I've given out…let's see….45 free samples of Motrin. I'm goin' for 50."

"Now." Her eyes softened, just slightly. "You look exhausted. I don't want you to have an excuse to avoid the clinic by getting sick. Now go."

In truth, House didn't really want to go back to his apartment. He hadn't been back there since Christmas morning. Not really. The memory of the Christmas eve was still too fresh in his mind. House knew he couldn't avoid everything and everyone forever, but returning to 221B, trashed and echoing with the bitter reminders of recent events, was to much for him…for today, anyway.

He thought of Wilson. Maybe a drink at the new blues club near the hospital…? No. He really didn't want to spend the evening with Wilson. Wasn't ready for that either. He could ask Cuddy to dinner, but she wouldn't take the invitation seriously enough to say yes.

House sighed and headed back upstairs to his office. It was, after all, five o'clock, and surely the team would be gone for the day. Hopefully, anyway. Now if he could just avoid Wilson…

No such luck. It was almost as if he was lying in wait. Figures.

"So Cuddy tells me you've sequestered yourself in the clinic all day." House halted in his tracks, about to enter the office. He tapped his cane in mild frustration.

"She tells me she's going to chain me to the clinic, and then when I actually spend time there, she badgers me that I'm there too many hours. Must be a female thing. So what explains you?"

"You're avoiding…"

"Oh here we go again…" House moved into his office, sitting heavily in his desk chair. When he looked up, despite his fervent wish to the contrary, Wilson was sitting opposite him. "And here, I thought this was a private office."

"Yeah, like you honor those sorts of boundaries."

"Give me a break, Wilson. It's my first day back. I need to 'readjust to my life.' Or haven't you read the latest issue of Platitudes Weekly?"

House glanced at his watched and pulled the Vicodin bottle from his jacket, shaking out two tablets. He observed Wilson watching him, assessing him. On cue, Wilson arched an eyebrow. "What, did Voldemort give you a month's supply? How did…?"

"Relax. It's legal. As for Voldemort, he's history. Don't you know it's illegal to give rehab residents their drug of choice?"

"They found out?" House nodded, noting the way Wilson's voice went up two octaves in disbelief. "Then how….?" House tossed the bottle to Wilson, who studied the label. When he looked up House was smiling smugly. "But why Vicodin? I thought they were thinking…"

House's expression became serious. "I can't be tethered to a pump, Wilson. Vicodin's the only…"

"What about your liver?"

"It been taken into consideration. This isn't your call."

"So nothing's changed." A statement, reiterated. "You go back to the way it was before." House nodded again. Let Wilson believe it, even if it wasn't true. Not completely. Not even physically. His dosage had been cut back. And gratefully so. House was no fool, and even he had realized that he was taking far too much acetaminophen, at least. And then there was Harrington. But there, again, Wilson didn't need to know. Anything.

"Nothing's changed. All of your nagging; your incessant lecturing—a waste of time: mine and yours. Rehab is just a bad, but blurry memory." The response smug and curt. "Now if you don't mind…" House gestured grandly to the stack of mail on his desk, bearing his best indignant expression.

"You don't even read your mail." Wilson rose disgustedly. "It's your funeral, House." House watched him leave, his glare nearly boring a hole in the back of Wilson's head. They would be alright. Boundaries. They needed boundaries. And this was a start.

House set his iPod carefully in the dock and set it on shuffle. "The Stoned Guest." Perfect for his mood. Bach on Crack. House selected a journal, a Chinese journal of tropical diseases and dug in. The last aria of the PDQ Bach work crescendoed just as House finished the article on the latest variant of hemorrhagic fever to hit the Southeast Asian rain forest. Both legs had been perched on his desk: his left was stiff; his right was practically begging for a mercy amputation.

"Need a ride?" House looked up, grimacing as he lifted his right leg from the desk. "I realized that you don't have your bike or your car." She explained the offer. "Buses stopped running regularly an hour ago, so…" House examined his watch. Time sure does fly, he thought sardonically.

"I'll manage." The Eames chair looked like as good a spot as any to spend the night.

"C'mon. You can't live here, House." She walked into the office, seating herself on the edge of his desk, well within his personal space.

"What do I have to do to get a little privacy in here? Last time I looked the sign on the office said 'Dr. Gregory House.' When was it renamed 'Grand Central Station?'"

"House…" He looked up. Her eyes were filled with a compassion he could only read as pity.

"Am I that pathetic?" He'd asked the question before, when she'd acquiesced to electroshock therapy. He was in rehab then. Was he still so wretched? Maybe he was. He couldn't even handle going back to his own apartment. House looked away. He couldn't stand having her look at him like that: her eyes moist and caring; her voice warm.

"Do you need…?"

"My cane," he spat out, frustrated. He didn't want or need her help. Not to stand; not to walk. Cuddy retrieved it and watched as House struggled to stand. He knew he had waited too long to take another pill. And sitting for hours in one position hadn't helped. He popped the cap of the prescription bottle and swallowed two Vicodin. Cuddy continued to observe him, saying nothing. "It's been six hours." In truth, it had only been four. But without it, he'd never make it out the door, much less to Cuddy's car—with or without her help.

"Do you need to wait a bit? Let it kick in?" House nodded, sitting again, resigned.

"I hate this Cuddy. You and Wilson, you think I love the pills; love the excuse to take narcotics. This isn't a fucking game. It's not recreation. It's my life. Don't you think if there was any possibility of another way, I'd…"

"There was and you tried it." She approached cautiously, keeping her voice soft, non-threatening. "I know you're trying. I know you've tried."

"This is real, Cuddy. My real life." He hadn't wanted to come off morose. "You driving me home or not?" He stood shakily, but he didn't feel as unsteady as he had moments before. Cuddy followed him to the door.


	5. Chapter 5

The truth was that Cuddy had no understanding of how best to treat House. She knew he was hurting; she knew he wasn't dealing well with the latest of those internal injuries. But because there were no visible scars; because there were no outward signs beside the terrifying pathos in his eyes, she had no way to approach him without his shutting her out.

So she pushed him; she yelled at him. Treated him no differently than she had before rehab. Two days of clinic duty. Two days of runny noses and crotch rot. He'd never suspect a thing. The last thing Cuddy thought he needed was to feel he was being pitied or accommodated. Especially after she had thrown him out of the clinic the night before—and he'd allowed her to see him vulnerable and exposed. She would never pity him. But she did cry for him and hurt for him. But it was nowhere close to pity.

"Do you know he goes out to the jogging park by the lake? He does it every day, no matter how cold; rain, snow. It doesn't matter to him. He just does it."

"Why?" Cuddy was baffled at Wilson's disclosure. Why do that to himself, she wondered.

"I saw him out there not an hour ago."

"Yeah. He's supposed to be working on a patient. Cameron told me the patient was discharged. What's he doing out there, hiding from me?"

"Basically, yeah. At least this time. Last place you'd look for him."

"He's right about that. He doesn't jog. He can't jog."

"But he could a few months ago. He told me that he goes to the park to watch. 'To imagine,' he said." A lump caught in Cuddy's throat at Wilson's words.

"That doesn't sound like House. He's not exactly sentimental. Or nostalgic." But she did know. And it was exactly something House might do. Just not something he'd share with anyone. She knew how keenly disappointed he was that the ketamine didn't work for more than a few weeks. She also knew he would never discuss it.

"What's the point of discussing it?" House had told her when she opened the topic months earlier. There's nothing more to do about it. It's done. Over. Time to move on. She had heard the enormous sadness and grief in his voice, despite the stoic words. She had let it be.

She could picture him, though. Wistfully observing: a little kid watching a baseball game from behind a fence, knowing he couldn't participate. Would never participate. Not in that game.

She walked out to the jogging park. It was late January and most of the snow had melted. The grass was unusually green; on the other hand there had been little "usual" about the weather the past few years. Her irises and hyacinths had popped out of the ground a week ago, two days before a big snowfall. Yet another series of near 50-degree weather days had melted most of the snow, leaving only patches where the shade prevented full melting. Global warming, eerie as it was, and scary as it was, had, at least, some pleasant side effects.

She saw him from afar as she approached. Cuddy had to smile. He was lying atop a picnic bench sprawled, more accurately and staring up at the sky. She wondered what could be holding his interest. Mabye nothing. Maybe he was asleep. As she neared, she saw that his eyes were open and cast into a large pine tree. She followed his gaze up to a large bird, perched incongruously in the treetop. It was a blue heron. She knew she was observing something as rare as he was: the private House—unguarded, unwary, in repose—maybe even at peace (although she knew also that she might be stretching the point a bit there).

She almost hated to disturb him, but… House tensed as he heard someone coming towards him. Looking slightly back, he found himself looking directly into Cuddy's eyes. Her face hovered above his. For a moment he thought she might lean down and kiss him. But, then again, this was Cuddy. And not the Cuddy of his late-night fantasies; this was the real Cuddy, bundled up and looking more than a little bit annoyed.

He sat up on the table, eye-to-eye with her and popped a Vicodin. She hadn't known yet that, in fact, Vicodin was his prescribed pain medicine. The urge to yank her chain was irresistible.

"So, rehab. It was all a scam?" He shrugged. Now she was pissed off at him. Good. Right where she was supposed to be. There was so much comfort in the familiar. Gone was the angel of mercy expression with which she had regarded him so earnestly the night before.

"You owe me, House." When it was all said and done, that much was true. He did owe her. She really couldn't put him back in jail; really couldn't turn him in without endangering her own freedom. (Well, he had told her that she was a fool to have done it.) So, stalemate. She didn't own him, but he did owe her. Big time. Clinic duty. Two days. Fuck.

But then there was Eve. And with her the dredging up of memories best left for dead. He needed to find his humanity. He needed to find his humility bone, too, right? But who were they to say when, where, how or even whether humanity was even relevant?

"You did good, House." Yeah. Really. Got her to get in touch with her emotions; to begin to process what had happened to her. Why was that an _a priori_ good thing? Got her to terminate the pregnancy.

"Yeah. We tell ourselves that we've helped her. Make ourselves feel good. Maybe all we've done was to make girl cry." He simply didn't know. He only knew that he felt raw: exposed and naked (and not in a good way).

House's abrupt departure from the lounge and the foosball game left Wilson and Cuddy bewildered at his sudden anger.

"What did we say to him?"

"You told him he did a good thing. Maybe that's not what he wanted to hear." Cuddy cocked her head. "Maybe he's not sure it was a good thing. That only time will tell."

"Since when did you become the House Whisperer?" Wilson shrugged. It was a guess, that's all.

"Did he say how he got her to talk? Traces of sodium pentathol in her blood, maybe?" Wilson sighed. "She wanted to know if anything bad ever happened to him, House told me. He didn't know how to respond. I told him to tell her the truth, tell her about being shot. That was a pretty bad thing, Maybe he talked about it with her. Maybe that's why he's so upset. Who knows, with him?"

Cuddy found House back in his office, headphones on, eyes closed. Again, she wondered if he might be asleep. But it had only been 15 minutes since he'd left she and Wilson.

"What do you want, Cuddy?" He hadn't moved a muscle or opened an eye. He simply knew.

She sat on the edge of the ottoman, gently nudging his feet out of the way as she did. "I just wanted to tell you that you don't have to do clinic hours tomorrow. You put in overtime today."

"Tired of paying out all that extra money? Did I win the game?" He had meant the words to sound bitter; they simply sounded tired.

"It was amazing how you got her to talk, House. She wouldn't say a word to Stone. With you… Don't you get anything out of that? She trusted you. And you helped her. That gave you nothing at all?" She was baffled. Only House would turn something that huge around and make into nothing. Less than nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Transitions

Chapter 6

Bird was located on a side street, half a mile off campus. As a jazz club, it was patterned after New York City's Birland—Charlie Parker's own nightclub. The club was only about 10 years old, but it might have just as easily stepped out of a 1950's movie set. It was House's favorite jazz haunt. House parked the bike in the single handicapped space and waited as Cuddy dismounted. He'd never admit it, but he had enjoyed the slight pressure of her body against his back; her arms around his waist.

Cuddy handed House's helmet to him, trying to fix her hair a little. "Do you have a death wish, House? For both of us? Jeez." House shrugged with feigned innocence. "No wonder the cops have it in for you."

"Thought you weren't new at this."

"I'm not. On the other hand, I've never tried breaking the sound barrier on a motorcycle." They walked in, taking a table near the bandstand. The band was on a break. About 10 of the 20 or so tables were occupied. Drinks were served. He: a Guiness; she a glass of Shiraz.

"Can I get you folks anything to eat?" An earnest college student reeled off the evenings specials.

"I'll take a Caesar salad, with salmon. Dressing on the side." House scowled at her selection, but wasn't surprised.

"I'll have a burger. Rare." A quick glance towards Cuddy, who was sipping the Shiraz. "Hold the grilled onions. Fries and a house salad."

The college kid exited. "Service here is lousy. Food is good and the Music is even better. But be prepared to stay awhile though; your salad may take an hour. Burger's quicker. Guess they have to personally go out and catch the salmon. At least that's what they told me last time…" House was fidgeting with all of toys in front of him. The silverware, the paper napkin, which was slowly being dismembered; the Guiness bottle…

It had been a long time since House and Cuddy spent any sort of casual time together. Years since they had sat together sharing a drink. Many, many years. He wondered what the hell he was doing here with her. Gratefully, for House, the band's break was over and they launched into a lengthy rendition of Jerome Kerns standard.

Cuddy watched House with interest. His eyes were closed and seemed to listen with his entire body. His hands drummed to the piano solos, the guitar improvs and the drums as they brushed the skins. "Dr. House?"

House's eyes flew open, momentarily annoyed that someone had broken his concentration. It was the club's owner, Sam. "The guys want to know if you want to sit in on the next number." Slightly embarrassed, House nodded.

"Fine," he replied, looking away from Cuddy's intent stare.

"You play with them?"

"No. Not really. I used to play with the sax player in another band; sometimes I sit in for a number or two. Do you mind?" He really should have asked her, he thought. On the other hand, this wasn't a date, so…

"Why should I mind? I'm just surprised. I've never seen you perform. I didn't know you still…"

"I don't." Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What had made him bring Cuddy here? He knew that answer to that. The music provided a rock-solid excuse to not talk. Drink, eat, listen. Not that he had really thought about it as he had driven here. House sighed as the band came back together to finish The Way You Look Tonight.

The pianist made a grand show of deference as he gave up his bench to House, taking his cane and hanging it on a nearby music stand before picking up Stratocaster guitar and sitting on a stool at the back of the bandstand. The leader said something to House, to which he nodded then smiled broadly. The rest of the band laughed as Cuddy watched in fascination at the interplay between House and the band members. There was an easy camaraderie between the regular players and House. More than would be suggested by an occasional number or two, as House had claimed.

It was a long piece. Cuddy didn't recognize it, but then again, she was no jazz expert. She knew good, however, and theses guys were much better than good. Each player took a break, playing long and winding improvisations until meeting the rest of the band back at the chorus only to pass the baton to the next player.

The expression on House's face as he took his turn was like nothing she had ever seen in years of observing him, decoding his expressions and body language. It was pure concentration; it was as if nothing else existed for him but the music and the moment. The intricacy of his playing was not lost on the band members as he used the full range of the keyboard. The smiled, laying back, giving him room. His eyes were closed during his solo, but Cuddy could easily perceive the pleasure. Her eyes were on him alone and the combination of his artistry and her nearly voyeuristic scrutiny of him left her feeling unexpectedly aroused. She hadn't noticed that the server had brought their food and was surprised to see her salad sitting in front of her as the band came back together for a final chorus.

She smiled slightly as she saw the sax player ask House to sit in on another number, and House politely and bashfully demur. Cuddy had known that House had been a professional musician at one time or another; it had been part his undergraduate legend at Michigan. But this was a part of House with which she was completely unfamiliar. And she was saddened that he chose to keep this part of himself private. She didn't want to make too big a thing of it when he returned to the table. Didn't want to scare him off and watch him retreat behind his fortress walls. So she willed herself not to gush.

"Your piano playing has unanticipated magical powers. It makes food arrive on the table." Cuddy smiled. "It was also amazing. I had no idea…"

"I'm out of practice."

"Modesty does not become you. Who wrote that?"

"It's a Bill Evans piece." House took a large bite of the burger, his eyes cast towards the bandstand. The group had begun their next number. "Ssh."

They ate in silence, the music providing an ideal landscape for House's reticence. She couldn't tell if he was brooding about the Eve, or simply mellow. She hoped it was latter, but feared that he was yet ruminating about the wisdom of drawing out the rape victim.

Couples had made their way onto the small dance floor as the band played an Ellington tune. She watched House watch them, glancing every now and then back at her. She noted a wistfulness at play in his eyes and wondered where that came from so suddenly.

"What are you thinking?" she asked as non-threateningly as she knew how.

"I'm not. I'm watching." Cuddy cocked her head, confused.

"You're watching." A statement.

"Yeah. See? That couple over there. Married for ages….but that one, over there," he said pointing to his left. They're lovers. Not married at all." Both couples appeared to be in their early 60s, more or less. Other than that, Cuddy could tell nothing more about them. House shrugged. "I can't dance; can't be out there…with you, for example. So I do what I can. I watch. I imagine…" His voice trailed off as he finished the Guinness with a long swig from the glass.

"House…" Cuddy's voice became hushed. She bit her lower lip, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "C'mon let's get out of here." She misunderstood his mood as yearning rather than simple, rational acceptance.

"Why?" Now it was his turn to be confused. Truthfully, he didn't want to leave her company quite yet. It was a pleasant distraction from his thoughts; his doubts. "Want me to take you back to your car?"

"No." She touched his hand, and he knew.


	7. Chapter 7

Cuddy knew that House had been sleeping in his office since Christmas, minus the four weeks in rehab. "How about your place?" she asked a bit disingenuously, if gently.

"Why?" The suggestion elevated his natural wariness to suspicion.

"You have a fireplace. I don't." Plausible enough. And true. "You have wood?"

"I have wood." House had realized that eventually he'd have to return to his apartment. Maybe it would be easier with someone, even if that someone was Cuddy. She'd leave him no opportunity to think too much about it, or at least forestall things for a while. On the other hand, how would he explain to her that he hadn't been back there since shortly after Christmas. It would be easy enough for her to tell, he considered. It had been a wreck when he left: still not entirely put back together after Tritter's dismembering of it, not to mention his own damage inflicted. At least he'd had the presence of mind to clean up the vomit and the dishes. As disheveled as was his personal appearance, he had no interest in sharing his flat with roaches or mice. A rat, in a cage, was another story.

House had given Steve McQueen to a neighbor to feed before going to see Tritter on Christmas morning, sure that he was going to be taken immediately to rehab. He didn't want the rat's starvation on his conscience. Very little about his thinking was clear that morning, but he was no rat murderer.

"The apartment's a mess, Cuddy. Why don't we…"

"What happened to your cleaning service?"

"Yeah. Another casualty of Tritter's. They took one look at the chaos wrought by Tritter and his friends and told me I needed a bulldozer and not a 'housekeeping' service."

"But that was in November!" House looked away exasperated at this line of inquiry.

"Yeah, well…I forgot. Just wave my magic cane and voila! Apartment put back together. How stupid of me to have not remembered that…" Cuddy's stare bored into him, but he wouldn't return her gaze.

"House. I know it's difficult for you. Why not hire…"

"Oh, what was I thinking? I did have a few other things on my mind…I…"

"Doesn't matter. It's getting too chilly out here. A wood-fire is just what I need right now. So, your apartment. If you're extra-special nice, I might help you clean up a bit."

"Fine." Defeated, he handed her the his helmet and they traveled the short distance to Baker Street. The thing of it was that it wasn't the mess that kept him away so much as memory of Christmas eve. Hell Christmas eve, the memory of that whole week; that whole month. But Christmas eve especially.

House asked himself if things were any better now than they were then? Did he really feel much differently about…everything…than he had when he had called his mother? Catherine had told him that he shouldn't expect much from a month. To give her time; to give himself time. For what, he wondered? He wasn't going to down another bottle of Oxy with a whiskey chaser. Time to heal? He hadn't healed in 40 years; or seven years; or six months—take your pick.

It wasn't rational to not want to return to the apartment. House knew that. "I haven't been back here since Christmas, you know." He dismounted the bike and took the helmet from Cuddy as he unlatched his cane.

"I know." House arched an eyebrow.

"Been spying on me?"

"Just concerned."

"Is that what this is about? I have a shrink you know."

"This," she said emphatically, "has nothing to do with that! And …how's that going by the way. Thought rehab's over, hence my question about using the present tense regarding Catherine. You know, scam and all…" She probably should have let the comment drop, but he had left the opening. She had tried to keep the teasing in her voice.

House unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer. A pile of mail on the small table near the mailboxes threatened to topple over. He glanced at it, and realizing the effort to pick it all up and open his door was too great for the moment, House ignored it.

The apartment was not as trashed as she had feared, but it wasn't good. Saying nothing, House piled some logs on the hearth and lit them. Cuddy began to wonder what the hell she was doing there. It had all seemed a good idea, back at the jazz club, wine seeping through her veins, watching House, the musician become someone entirely different. Now, she wasn't at all sure. About anything.

House was pacing, picking things up; an expensive lamp that had fallen. A guitar, laying askew against the sofa, House replaced in its rack on the wall. He folded several throws, setting them carefully over the back of an armchair. Finally, he sat on the sofa, propping his right leg on the coffee table. The nearly empty bottle of Maker's Mark sat upon it, an unwelcome reminder of Christmas. He knew Cuddy was observing him and it made him uncomfortable. This was not a good idea. An uncomfortable silence enveloped them.

"I suppose I should offer you a drink. I suppose I'm not being a very good host. I don't usually…"

"Don't get up. Where do you keep your beer? In the fridge?"

"I can get you a beer, Cuddy. I'm not that…" But she was already up.

"I'll get one for you too." Cuddy threw on the light in the kitchen, only to be stunned. The place had been ransacked. Every cabinet, every drawer had been emptied; their contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The shattered remains of antique etched crystal goblets (his grandmother's maybe?) shattered amongst metal flatware, broken dishes and copper pot covers. No wonder he hadn't wanted to return to this. No wonder he couldn't deal with putting it all back together.

"House…Tritter's people did this?"

"Amazing what a little search warrant will let ya do, huh?"

"They did major damage. Is there anything you can…?" House shook his head, taking the bottle from Cuddy. He took a long swig.

"On the other hand, kitchen's nothing compared to the bedroom. They did a really good job there. Real thorough." House was surprised at how bitter he still felt after over a month. On the other hand, the priceless collection of artifacts he had collected as a kid; his beloved chemistry set—destroyed; a crumbled heap of so much ground up glass and rock lying beside his bed. House sighed, rising from the sofa. He walked to the fireplace mantle, staring down into the fire.

The light from the blaze made his eyes nearly colorless. Cuddy approached him cautiously, lightly touching him on the back. Again, she noted the slight flinch. And again she noted that he didn't move away from her touch. She figured that it wasn't the destruction of physical things that had upset House; it was the violation. It was the violence of it. But she didn't think that even that was the whole story. He turned, slightly surprised to find her quite that close.

He both craved her touch and was repelled by his own neediness. He broke the contact and stalked to the sofa, sitting in the corner of it, warning her off and daring her at the same time. She took the dare; knowing him too well to be put off by his glower. She knew the moment, as it were, had passed, recalling how serene he had looked back at the club, playing, immersed in his playing. She tried to move the game back onto his turf, back into his comfort zone.

"Play me something?" She grabbed his hand playfully, pulling at him, while being mindful of his bad leg. "I'm a pushover for a good song, you know. I'll do anything, maybe even help you clean up this disaster area before it's condemned." She tried for a combination of seductiveness and pragmatism.

"Gee, Cuddy. So, I play 'Mary had a Little Lamb' and you'll follow me to my bedroom?"

"To clean."

"It's a start." He arched an eyebrow, making his way to the baby grand.

Cuddy sat beside him on the bench. Close, but giving him room and access to the entire keyboard. A smile quirked his lips as he pecked at the opening measure of "Mary…" Cuddy slapped his arm.

"Ow."

"Play, then."

"Fine. I'll play." He thought for a moment before the lyrical sounds of Gershwin's American in Paris wafted from the soundboard. Cuddy closed her eyes. She could nearly see the Eiffel Tower lit in the dark.


	8. Chapter 8

Transitions

Chapter 8

A/N—This story will progress as if Needle in a Haystack hadn't happened (or hadn't happened yet). I view NiaH sort of like those X-Files stand alones that didn't fit into the overarching arc of the seasons.

Had she not known him for so long, Cuddy would have been completely swept away by his playing. His face was serene with his eyes closed, the sorrow and resentment always present in them were not visible. The lines that marked him with tension and pain were imperceptible when he disappeared, like this, into the music.

Cuddy observed his face from her close vantage at his side. He was more gaunt these days. The toll, she thought, from the last month. His hair had a bit more gray at the temples, and his beard, if you wanted to call it that, had sprouted twin patches of white.

House stopped playing, catching Cuddy unawares. She looked away embarrassed to have been caught so closely observing him.

"That was amazing." She hoped she hadn't sounded too much like a swooning teenager, but she was always slightly amazed when House allowed himself the luxury of being himself, rather than quote-House-unquote.

Cuddy understood how much he needed the image that he was quick to acknowledge and refused to defend. In the beginning, just after she had hired him, House had always said that people don't like to be treated by sick doctors and he hated being viewed like that, so he curtailed patient contact as much as he could. When that wasn't enough for him, House withdrew more and more into his office and into himself.

He'd had a reputation, when she hired him, of being one of the best diagnosticians on the planet. It was as if he had a sixth sense about diseases. Other hospitals, anxious to capitalize on desire to leave private practice after the infarction, made him offers impossible to refuse. What they didn't understand, however, was that Gregory House had changed elementally. Along with several pounds of leg muscle, House lost his taste for the game of medicine. He would refuse all requests to speak at conferences; to fundraise; to chair committees; to play golf with major donors. He would sit in his cushy office and read journal articles. When asked to review articles for publication, he would agree, only to rip the researchers' work to shreds (not without reason). His reputation evolved to one not so glowing. After the fourth job in a year, the offers from major medical institutions dried up. His relationship with Stacy deteriorated into alternately silent glaring or cruel and vicious arguing.

When he came to PPTH, his reputation for genius was superseded by a reputation for being difficult, sullen and withdrawn; uncaring about his personal appearance and refusing to meet with patients under his nominal care.

Cuddy had known all of that, but as the new dean of medicine, she had secured his services to head a newly endowed department of diagnostic medicine. He would be a consultant on cases that no one else could figure out. A medical court of last resort, as it were. He had funding to hire three fellows, which would fulfill his teaching requirement and secure his tenure on the faculty. He would, she had told him, only have to take the cases he wanted. No commitment to fundraise, give speeches or any of the other public ventures that clearly would make him uncomfortable. The position wouldn't make him rich, but it would keep him medicine, doing what he did best.

It had been nine years ago, give or take, and Cuddy had seen House slowly come out of his shell. When he did interact with patients, which, she suspected he did more often than his reputation would allow him to admit, the were always better for it. He was a significant source of frustration to her, but almost as if on cue, he would do something for a patient, or for her personally, that would disarm her, wow her or simply leave her speechless with awe. Like with Eve. Or like now, watching him play Gershwin, sitting close by his side. No sarcasm, not a hint of cynicism, just the lushly romantic and virtuoso piano playing of a haunted and sensitive soul. No one at the hospital was likely to believe it (except maybe Wilson)—that this side of Gregory House even cohabited with Gregory House the cold, unemotional jerk. She doubted that even House really understood this side of himself, that it even existed.

"House. Your playing…where…when…did you learn to play like that?"

"Yeah, well, I had the requisite piano lessons when I was a kid…"

"Yeah, right." Cuddy stood, wanting to sit by the fire. House took the last swig from the beer bottle, setting it on the piano. He stood with some difficulty; his cane was halfway across the room.

"Can you hand me my cane, Cuddy. I think…" Cuddy nodded, realizing that his leg must've stiffened sitting at the piano.

"Is the new dosing regimen of Vicodin working out for you at all?" House was a bit taken aback at the question, considering their earlier conversation in the park. Cuddy noted his confusion and smiled.

"I checked…"

"Those records are private. Patient confidentia…"

"Hah! As if you give a crap about patient confidentiality. Besides. You're my employee. I have a right to know…"

"No. You don't." But his argument was only half-hearted. "It's really not enough, what they have me on."

"How many hours?"

"Four. Not quite. Not due for another two." House walked painfully over to the sofa, sitting in it heavily. His peaceful demeanor had all but vanished.

"Take your next dose." Now House was astonished. It was almost surreal, a weird sort of role reversal.

"I told Harrington I'd give the new regimen a week to work."

"Yeah, but it's been a day, and clearly…" Cuddy had taken a seat next to him on the sofa. She watched the flames dance amongst the logs as the fire crackled, sending small sparks up into the hearth. She loved the smell of the burning wood.

"She's not going to be so quick to up my dose. She's going to want to supplement it with other fun drugs. I'm not sure…" Cuddy couldn't quite believe that this was House she was talking to. "I can't run out of…" House looked into the fire, not finishing his sentence.

House no longer had his stash. His safety net of extra Vicodin, should the need arise. If he ran out, that was it. Wilson was no longer writing for him. No one was. "House, you need to talk to Harrington tomorrow. If you need… You shouldn't have to…"

"What? Be in constant pain? Wonder where my next fix is going to come from if I run out Vicodin? What?" House stood, frustrated. He hated this. All of it. Especially the idea of begging Harrington for a higher dosage. He had risen from the sofa too quickly and faltered, nearly toppling into the coffee table head first. He caught himself on the arm of an adjacent easy chair as he staggered and landed softly, sitting on the floor. He leaned his head back against the seat of the sofa, defeated. Cuddy joined him on the Persian rug.

"Give me your right leg."

"We trading? I'd be happy to. Mine's longer than yours, but I think you'd be getting the wrong end of the deal, so…"

"Your. Leg. Here." She motioned toward her lap as she reached over, pulling his leg carefully and gently toward her. House moved the rest of his body awkwardly closer to Cuddy. She turned and faced towards him, placing his leg across over her crossed legs. "I used to be pretty good at this, you know." She began to very caringly massage his leg. She started at the calf, avoiding the center of his pain for the moment. House gasped slightly at her touch, closing his eyes and allowing the sensations to envelop him, relax him.

"Tell me when you're ready for me to work your quad."

"Not yet." That much she knew. The pain above his right knee had rendered every other muscle in his right leg a tangle of knots. She wanted to relax those peripheral areas before touching his thigh.

"I'm sorry about your apartment, House. All those things…" He shrugged. "The sense of violation you must have felt…" She wondered if that was the source of his empathy with Eve—that shared sense of violation. Violation he had suffered too often over the years, from Stacy's betrayal (or saving his life, depending on your point of view, she considered); the shooting—now this. It wasn't rape, but… "Look, I know you aren't sure about whether you did the right thing about Eve." Cuddy could feel House's muscles stiffen again beneath her hands. "But you did all you could do. She's talking about it."

"What makes you think that's necessarily a good thing?" It was more a statement than a question.

"You shouldn't let things fester inside. It's corrosive. At least if she's talking…"

"You don't know anything about it, Cuddy." House moved, disrupting Cuddy's massage. She pulled his leg back over her lap.

"Stay still, or I can't do this." He was getting agitated and Cuddy wasn't sure why. "…And you do?" She responded to his question.

House responded by pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his forehead before replacing his hands on the floor. Cuddy moved up to his knee. "You ready?" House nodded slightly, waiting for her touch. "You did good, House. With Eve. She trusted you. You must've said something; done something to win her trust."

"She was raped. She's a bad judge of character. Why else would she trust me?"

"Or a good one."

"I told her a story. Ow." Cuddy had come to a particularly sensitive area of the thigh. She could feel the scar tissue beneath his jeans and she momentarily flashed on the night a year before when he had come to her office, desperate and in agony, begging her for relief; for a spinal shot of morphine. She felt ashamed suddenly that she hadn't trusted him; hadn't believed him. "I told her…I told her that I had been abused when I was a kid. She asked me if anything terrible had ever happened to me…"

Cuddy stopped in her tracks, shocked. Why tell her that? Why not tell her something real, she wondered. The shooting; even the infarction. Why make up something, she wondered?

House sighed loudly, his breath sounded ragged as he breathed out. Cuddy realized that she had stopped her massage. "Sorry." She continued, kneading the damaged muscles between his knee and hip. "House." Her voice was a whisper. "What you told her...?"

"It's true." House's voice was nearly a whisper; the words catching in his throat.

"Oh my God, House…" He wasn't sure exactly what had made him confess it to Cuddy. The words just seemed to slip out, disarmed as he was. He instantly regretted it, cursing himself; cursing her for care and concern. Her pity. Fuck. Just. Fuck.

"It was a long time ago. It was a strategy. Hardly ever think about it anymore. You can't tell? I'm such the picture of great mental health." He failed to keep the bitterness from his voice. He jerked away from Cuddy's touch, raising himself back up to the sofa, and then, with the aid of his cane, walked up to the fireplace mantle. He stared down into the flames, poking them with an antique long handled tool. He felt Cuddy's breath on his back.

He turned, facing her. They were very close. "It's not what defines me. Not who I am," he responded to the unasked question. His voice was even again.

"But it's part of you." Cuddy's voice was too soft, too compassionate. It made him uncomfortable. He wanted to insert a sarcastic remark, but couldn't seem to access that part of his vocabulary. "How old were you?"

"Six, seven, eight…it goes on. Until I grew too tall and too big…and too not caring." Cuddy ventured into the inevitable.

"Was it sexual?" Not that it mattered. Abuse was abuse.

"No." It explained a lot about House's attitude towards abusive parents, and their victims over the years. Even at his most apathetic, if he suspected abuse, he took the case. It fit.

"Do you…"

"No. I don't. Want to talk about it." He again turned away from her. She was still standing very close as he stared into the flames. The smoke burned his eyes and made them water. Cuddy's hands were on his back, willing him to turn around. He didn't want her pity, but instinct drew him back towards her. She looked deeply into his eyes. "It's the smoke Cuddy. I'm not…" She nodded. Entwining her hand in his, she led him back to the sofa.


	9. Chapter 9

Transitions

Chapter 9

Cuddy had let herself out of House's apartment around midnight. She had turned down both his offer of a ride home the use of his bed, with or without him. "Your choice," he had quipped with one eyebrow arched. She had been relieved to see the, albeit slight, return of his sense of humor. Ultimately, Cuddy opted for a taxi ride back to PPTH and her Lexus.

She'd hated to leave him, but he had become uncommunicative and she was beginning to fall asleep. And as much as his offer of a bed was both gallant and tempting, she wasn't sure these were the best conditions to stay with him. Conditions under which innocent comfort could lead to a whole other place (given her hormones and his mood). She wasn't sure that she was ready for it; and she knew that House would view any such encounter as pity and nothing more. Even if it wasn't true. She wanted him, and she was pretty sure he wanted her, but under circumstances so ambiguous, it wouldn't be a very good idea.

Cuddy had stayed for a while after House's disclosure, but with every question or comment ventured, he looked away, completely withdrawing from her. She knew that he had thought it a terrible blunder to tell her; that he regretted it instantly. House continued to sit on the sofa, staring into the fire. Eventually Cuddy reluctantly got up from her place at his side and began to examine the damage wrought by Tritter. She needed something to do with her anxiety. And talking to House, who had apparently turned to stone as he stared motionless into the fire. She didn't feel she could leave him like this, yet she needed to do something. And cleaning was more productive than pacing. Or screaming.

She thought the kitchen would be easiest; the most straightforward. Clearly, House had made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the mess, although with his limited mobility, she guessed he hadn't gotten very far. A few pots had been replaced on their hooks; the sink had been cleared of debris; a small space on the butcher block. Cuddy sighed, surveying the disaster area. Maybe House would let her send her own cleaning crew to set things back in order. She knew if she did nothing, it might stay that way forever.

Quite suddenly, he was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, surprising her when she stood with an armload of surprisingly intact ceramic mugs. "You don't have to do this."

"I know. I want to." She didn't sound convincing. That much she knew. No one "wants" to do this sort of detail. "House you can't manage…" Anger darted across his gaze, but Cuddy was at a loss. It was what it was. "Look, I don't really want to do this. How about I send my cleaning crew. There are five of them. They come all at once. In an hour everything will…" She was talking too fast, trying to him on the idea. On accepting help.

"Please, Cuddy. Just let me drive you back to your car." It was almost a plea. His voice was hushed and raspy. "If you don't want to drive, you can stay here tonight. My bed is your bed" The attempt was half-hearted at best, and she knew he'd rather be alone.

She knew it was time to leave. He was on the edge. She wanted to hold him; to reach out to him. But she wasn't sure how to do it without setting off his defensive alarm bells and drive him away.

"Will you be alright?" A nod. She wasn't so sure, but there was nothing else she could do. She hoped he would at least call Catherine—end of rehab aside—tomorrow.

Now home, Cuddy couldn't sleep. She wandered the spacious and airy rooms, her mind overflowing with worry. Of course the information was only new to her. House had lived with it for a lifetime. It was too new for her, however, and she couldn't help but see the young Gregory suffering at the hands of God-knows-who. An uncle, an aunt? A teacher? God forbid, a parent? No. She'd met his parents. They were nice enough. Friendly enough.

Cuddy stopped mid-kitchen in her tracks. His parents. He had tried so hard to get out of seeing them. He had acted so strangely, even for him, when they were to visit him. To her, to everybody. He'd offered to do clinic duty, for heaven's sake!

"I don't hate her. I hate him!" The tone of his voice had been remarkable. She hadn't been able to put her finger on it then. Regret? Sadness? Fear? But no anger, no vitriol, and more importantly, no sarcasm. At the time she thought it was simply House being House. But he refused to lie to them.

"I can't lie to her. She's a human lie detector," he had remarked. House of all people, the great manipulator. Lying when it served his purpose, his agenda, was never a barrier for him. And no one could figure out why he couldn't do what they all did when they didn't want to see family: lie. But he wouldn't. Or couldn't. And she laughed at him for his childishness. What had they done to him?

Cuddy wiped her eyes. She wanted to talk to him. To someone. Should it have been obvious? Would it have mattered? Would she have forced him to deal with Eve? Oh God. Eve. Had he not had to deal with her, he wouldn't have had to open that wound. A deep wound. The deepest. But hadn't she just told him only hours ago that talking was the best thing?. "At least she's talking. She can begin to deal with it. You did good, House." The words were acid in her throat now as guilt eroded her insides. She felt sick.

Another attempt at sleep left Cuddy tossing the bedcovers into a tangled mess. Images, words, casually tossed off, sarcastically snarked, bitterly spat, battered her mind, invaded her consciousness and kept sleep a far-off destination. "He wants to be miserable. He thinks it makes him special. He simply can't be happy." Wilson thought he had his friend pegged. She wondered how much he knew. She guessed that it was not much, if anything at all.

"Part of him doesn't think he deserves to be happy. I'm not sure how to reach that part of him; how to make it better; how to change that." Stacy's parting words to Cuddy as she said her tearful good-bye the first time all those years ago rang in her ears. In retrospect, it was classic. And House's trust issues? Yeah. Classic.

Of course it didn't explain him completely. Not by a long shot. On the other hand, maybe she was being overly dramatic here. He had simply said that it was true. That he had been abused. There was a pretty broad range to what that really meant. And his dad…if it was his dad, and not a teacher, a family friend or some other adult…was a marine officer. Could have been good old fashioned discipline. And House could be a bit of a drama queen. A bit? Yeah, more than a bit.

Cuddy looked at the clock, surprised to see that it was six a.m. and time to get up. She felt like hell warmed over.

A shower and a stop at Starbucks and Cuddy felt almost human again. The lush strains of An American in Paris competed with her disquiet. She hoped she was wrong and that yesterday's events had not opened a festering wound—one that was better off left scabbed and scarred over. She needed to talk to Wilson. She needed to know.


	10. Chapter 10

House had paced his living room for two hours before phoning Catherine Harrington's service. It had been two a.m. and he knew he wouldn't get Harrington at her office at that hour. And he had regretted making the call by the fourth ring. He had almost hung up. But the service had picked up.

"It's not urgent. She can phone me in the morning. I need a consult regarding a patient." His voice had been even, professional, as he spoke to the answering service. But the truth was, he was edgy as hell. Why on earth had he told Cuddy anything? But she was gone. Home by now, asleep in her bed surrounded by downy comforters and silk sheets. Much better than the paltry offer he had made her. He tried to focus on her. Cuddy: her jet black hair splayed across her pillow. Bad idea, that. Not a place he wanted to go right at that moment.

More pacing, He was certainly going to get no sleep that night. He turned on the television and settled on an infomercial about insomnia. Talk about speaking to your demographic, he mused sardonically. House closed his eyes only to see her—tears streaming down her cheeks as she told him about the rape. The violence of it incongruous with the pastoral setting of the park. He hadn't known what to do, how to act; what was expected of him. So he simply let her cry. He'd offered no solace, no comfort. He knew there was none to be had. "What if all we've done is make a girl cry?" he'd wondered aloud to Wilson and Cuddy.

His leg was worse tonight. He mentally noted the number of Vicodin he'd consumed in the past 24 hours. Maxed out. His last blood tests had been slightly alarming. No more Vicodin till morning.

As for his own disclosure, memories only barely remembered in the Byzantine maze of his brain returned in shattered images that came and went as flashbulb pops in his head. He knew that if he slept the images emerge more fully formed to haunt his dreams. Sleep was not something he craved, despite his fatigue.

More pacing. Every step was agony, but he knew that even if he stopped, the pain wouldn't retreat, but would just as likely intensify. He began to casually eye the room for his rescue kit. The next day was Saturday and he wasn't expected in. A morphine injection seemed a rather attractive prospect on many levels.

His pager went off, vibrating against his hip. "Got your message. Didn't want to wake you if you were asleep. Call if you want to talk. I'm on call anyway. Harrington."

"I need a professional opinion." House threw as much "doctor" behind the request as was able.

"I'm free at 10:15 tomorrow morning. Meet me in my office on six."

"Fine." Silence.

"Look, Dr. House, I'm awake anyway. Do you want to meet now? I mean… We can meet at the Sunrise Café."

"I'll meet you there in half an hour. That OK?"

"Sure." Click. House downed two Vicodin, certain that he'd never make it even to his bike without the drug in his system. The café was only five minutes away, but he needed time for the pills to work their magic and ratchet the pain down from intolerable to merely agonizing before venturing out of the apartment.

By the time he'd reached the café, House was less tense and regretted making the call in the first place. It two thirty in the morning, his leg hurt like hell, and he was beyond exhausted. A consult. How long would it take Harrington to see through that? On the other hand he did want to know her opinion. He still didn't know if he had done the right thing with Eve. He also didn't know why it still gnawed at him so many hours later. Maybe it was the fatigue; the pain.

Catherine had arrived first and sat in a back booth in the deserted café. She took him in before House saw her, observing the agitation still apparent; his gait, which wasn't good. She wasn't surprised at that. She hadn't been happy with his choice not to allow the morphine pump, nor the gabapentin. Vicodin had been a poor choice, therapeutically. They both knew it. But House had argued that stronger meds would have too great an effect on his ability to think; to analyze. Vicodin would dull the pain, yet leave his faculties intact. It was a tradeoff he was willing to make.

"How was your first day back at work, Dr. House?" Catherine had to admit her surprise that House had contacted her so soon. She half-expected to never hear from him again, writing him off as skeptical of therapy, at best, if not downright hostile to the very idea.

"Like I said," he replied, sitting heavily on the padded bench. Catherine cringed a bit, thinking that he might have been more comfortable sitting at a table in a chair. "I need a professional opinion."

"OK." She waited, trying to keep the sleepiness from her eyes, but intrigued. "What's up?" He stared back at her in reply before looking down at the table, intensely studying graffiti scratched into the laminate surface. It was only his first day back. Catherine was a growing a bit alarmed.

"I had a patient," he began awkwardly. "Does it help to talk….I mean…She was a rape victim…" Catherine had heard through the grapevine about a rape victim who had OD'd in the clinic. Right in front of Claire Stone.

"Slow down, Dr. House."

"Sorry." House sighed, frustrated with himself, with Harrington, with Cuddy for getting him into this situation in the first place. He began again. "Do you really believe that bullshit that 'talking about it' is a good thing? Always? I mean if you didn't, generally, anyway, you're in the wrong specialty. I get that. But is it always the best course?"

The earnestness in his voice and the lateness of the hour suggested that this patient really got to him. An idea that ran counter to everything she knew about him and his reputation. But not so out of line with what she believed was beneath his defensive shields. "If I believe that it's good, it's not bullshit. Not to me, anyway. I know it's not what you believe. But yes, in general, I think it's healthy for a patient to talk. Suppressing feelings about psychological or physical trauma isn't usually a healthy thing, but you know I feel that way. I suppose there are situations where something is so painful, maybe not dealing with it better in the short run, anyway. My question to you, and you know I never answer anything without asking a question myself, is why are you asking me?. And why in the middle of the night?"

"Well, that's two questions, Dr. Harrington. I…this patient. I got her 'to talk.' Did all the right things. Followed all the rules. I just don't know if it was the right thing to do."

"Why were you with a rape victim?"

"Clinic patient." So, why hadn't he handed her off to psych. "Tried to take myself off the case. I'm not exactly right doc for a rape victim." He tried to avoid sounding bitter.

"Why do you say that?" House scowled.

"Yeah. Not exactly the touchy-feely type. Ask anyone. I flunked 'bedside manner 101' in med school."

"So why didn't you get Cuddy to release you? I can't imagine that she would put a patient through…"

"Cuddy put in a psych referral. Stone." House figured that by now Harrington would have heard about the Stone's fiasco. House fidgeted, watching her make the connections. He observed the realizations spread to her eyes.

Catherine sighed. She could think of no worse a patient for House on his first day back. He was still emotionally raw from his experience in rehab, admit it or not. No wonder he had been ravaged by dealing with her. No wonder he was second guessing himself, hours later. She was suddenly less concerned about House's patient than she was about House.

"Can I get you anything?" The server had been patiently standing beside their table in the nearly deserted café.

"Cinnamon dolce latte, no whip. Skim; decaf."

House smiled. "I'll go for elegant. Coffee; high octane. Black. Sure you want decaf? I thought you…You're not on call are you? You lie to all your patients?"

"I thought you wanted a consult, not a session. So, technically…" Actually, she was pretty sure that the consult was a smokescreen, anyway. But he didn't have to know that either.

"So you just lie to your colleagues." Catherine was too sleepy for semantic games.

"You got her to talk. Pretty good for an unsympathetic jerk like you, huh? What'd you do, threaten her?" It was a half-hearted attempt at best, but it was as good as she was capable of in the middle of the night. She thought she had a pretty good idea as to what happened. Under all the bullshit, House was as empathic as they came. He'd fight it, deny it, try to push it under a rug, but in the end, there it was. His woundedness would have been a beacon to the girl, if she was looking through the right prism.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"You OK?" She knew he wasn't, but she had to ask anyway. He looked as if he wanted to say something, like there was some other thing bothering him. "You know, you may have saved her life."

"I doubt that." His voice was somber.

"I heard she was suicidal. You turned that around."

"She wasn't suicidal. It was a tactic."

"Still, you don't know…"

"That is the point, isn't it."

"There is no right or wrong answer, sometimes. I know you don't believe that, but sometimes we just have to do the best we can and let it go."

"But that's not…"

"I know, but it's all we have. Sometimes. Your leg bothering you tonight?"

"It's fine."

"Right."

"I'm looking into some other things. I know you're not too happy with me being on the vicodin."

"Evidently your not, either. What other things?'

"Some experimental stuff. There has to be something." He sounded frustrated, defeated.

"I can ask Kwan to keep his eyes open if you want… You really want to find an alternate therapy for your leg?"

"Not a therapy. A cure. I'm tired of living like this. I can't live like this." She arched an eyebrow. House picked up on her concern immediately.

"Not what I mean. Don't worry. I'm not going to go home and slit my wrists. I just mean that I want as normal a life as I can have. Whatever that means for however long that means."

"How'd you get her to talk to you."

"We just talked. That's all. Religion, politics, philosophy. You know, the usual."

Catherine smiled. "Nothing about you is usual. You got her to open up by chatting?"

"Believe me, it wasn't intentional. Not at first."

"I can only imagine."

"No. I mean…I told her some things…a strategy. I figured I share; she would share."

"And you told her a story. One that wasn't true. And she saw right through it."

"It wasn't a total lie."

"But enough of one to break her trust. OK, so clearly that wasn't what worked."

"We walked. I took her out to the lake in the middle of campus."

"The jogging park? That was a good strategy. Taking her away from the hospital. Nice. That get her to open up?"

"Eventually." He stopped. There was something else he wanted to say, she knew it. But she knew he wasn't ready. He was already feeling too exposed, she thought, just having brought her out in the middle of the night. He didn't want to turn it into a session; make her think he was in some sort of crisis. He knew too much of the process to let himself be carried away by it. At least not tonight.

"You did the right thing. I'd heard that Stone got called on the carpet by the Psych department chair. Totally embarrassed the department when she had to be bailed out by some attending in the clinic. Tall guy with a cane, I heard. Rescued the whole situation. It probably wasn't a good case for you to handle on your first day back—not for your well being , anyway. Patient benefited from it though. I'm glad you called me. Always happy to consult with such an esteemed colleague. Or just talk with you."

"Thanks, Dr. Harrington."

"Catherine."

"Yeah."

House was still a bit edgy when he got home, but not quite so bad as before. The vicodin and conversation had relaxed him a little as it dulled the pain in his thigh. The sour images of his childhood had faded back from vivid to sepia. At least for the moment, they might be kept at bay. He flopped himself on the sofa as the earliest moments of dawn leaked through his window. He opened the latest issue of Topics in Pain Management, hit the remote on his stero system and settled into the new day.


	11. Chapter 11

Transitions

Chapter 11

"Time changes everything."

"That's what people say. But it isn't true. Doing things changes things. Not doing things leaves everything exactly the same." House stared out his office window into the night.

He had spoken from experience. Time changed nothing. Certainly not for him. At least nothing positive. The passage of time doesn't heal; doesn't make the hurt any less profound; love less intense. Not that he'd had all that much experience with love…

House had to smile as the image of the disheveled Cuddy—the bra-less, disheveled Cuddy popped into his head. He hadn't quite meant to annoy her that night. Actually, he wasn't entirely certain as to what drove him, like an overly-protective older brother, to her door the other night. Yeah, he had told himself that he needed her medical opinion, and the on-call endocrinologist was an idiot. And, she had already OK'd the nerve biopsy. Thyroid storm. It was extremely unlikely at best.

She sure had fallen right into bed with him. First date. Impressive, he considered. Eastern Lube. House had to admit that he had, on the surface at least, all the makings of a serious prospect for Cuddy. He was tall (though not as tall as House); nice looking (well except for the decided lack of hair); probably rich (yeah, richer than him. A lot richer than him); nice. Cuddy would eat him alive. Unless she put on that really annoying demure act. Fuck. So why did that bother House so much: enough to distract him from his reading.

"Do you like me, House?" She had gotten right in there. Right into his personal space, her voice, at the same time, a challenge and a seduction; a growl and a purr. And he had been rendered speechless, if only for the moment. He had become almost undone by her gaze, with its mix of sensuality and callousness.

"…Do you want me for yourself, House?" That _was_ the question, wasn't it? When she was close, her voice soft and warm, saying things to him that no one else had leave to say; comforting him, when he would allow no one close enough to even try…

He couldn't go there; refused to go there. He had no right to go there. What could he offer? He was soul-withered and weary. He could barely walk at times; making love—having sex could have none of the spontaneity of a playful wrestle in the sheets. His right leg would always be the elephant in the room, affecting his mobility, his agility, his pleasure—and hers. She was so better off with Mr. Eastern Lube.

But then there was that night not long ago when he had told her his deepest and worst secret. What had made him tell her? Why had he needed her to know that about him? House shook off the emotion, willing himself to return his concentration to the task at hand.

No, time changed nothing. Well, except for the cost of Medline searches. Now, that had changed for the better. House smiled as glanced at the scatter of monographs and journal articles. Post-it flags decorated the edges of most. A yellow legal pad, now filled lay on top of one stack.

Back in medical school a Medline search required a trip to the library and $95 per hour of search time. He remembered his shock when he'd asked the librarian at Hopkins to do a search on a fast and dirty synthesis of lysergic acid. She hadn't been shocked. Not at Hopkins and certainly not in the early '80s. No, the shock had been all his when presented with the $500 bill and a bibliography. "Can I get copies?" he asked in his most seductive voice.

"Sure. Library has most of these journals. Check them out. Show the clerk your student ID and she'll get them for you. Copier's right around the corner."

"But I don't have time…"

"Well, I can order copies. Five bucks apiece."

"Great." He was in the wrong field, he griped.

But now. Now, he could sit at his computer, handy Medline subscription, courtesy of PPTH, do a click or two and voila! Not that he was searching for cheap and quick ways to synthesize LSD anymore. No, this was much more important.

"Pain management," he had typed in quotes. "And experimental and clinical." The Boolean logic linked the terms together to maximize the relevance of the hits. He watched as the list of publications scrolled down his screen. He scanned the screen, looking for names he recognized, respected, knew personally (and hadn't pissed off recently.)

"Knicks game on at nine. Want to do pizza and beer?" Wilson had startled him. House felt a bit like a kid being caught red-handed. "What are you doing?"

"New porn site. Med school babes."

"Yeah. Right."

"Right up your alley. Who knows, one of them could be Mrs. Wilson number 4."

"Nah. Now if they were nursing school babes…"

"True."

"Seriously, man, what are you up to? You looked like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar."

"Got me. Never could keep my hands off of Cameron's Toll House cookies." House looked back at the screen. "Nothing. Just a little research. Nothing." House shrugged, flipping the computer off, trying to remember if he had bothered to save the search. Probably not.

Wilson sat opposite House, who had picked up, and was now destroying, a large paperclip. Wilson was now eyeing House's collection research papers on House's cluttered desk. He grabbed one, reading the title.

"You thinking about getting a fourth sub-specialty in Oncology? Diagnostics no longer doing it for you? 'Phase II Clinical Trial Protocol for Experimental Pain Management Protocol in Terminal Cancer Patients.' Sexy title."

"Movie's probably better." Wilson leafed through the monograph.

"Cornell University Hospital? Sounds like a plan. Except for one problem. You don't actually _have_ cancer."

"Hey, Wilson, did you know that Cuddy is going on blind dates? Guy was a real…"

"He seemed pretty nice."

"She found him on…" 

"Yeah, I know. doesn't even do ballroom dancing. Does she?"

"I don't think she was actually planning on _going_ ballroom dancing with him. Why are you so suddenly interested in Cuddy's social life? Did you know that's he a mechanic?"

"No. Actually, he's not. He _owns_ Eastern Lube. And when did you meet him?"

"Really? I'm impressed. In passing. Yesterday."

"She went out with him again?" House looked stricken.

"Again. Why do you care if and who Cuddy dates?"

"I don't."

"Right. Did you ever ask that patient about the nerve fiber?" Wilson knew when to change the subject. At least most of the time. It was something that House appreciated about him.

"No." House looked away from Wilson. "Why? Would you have done it, seriously?" House's voice was quiet. The playfulness present when discussing Cuddy was gone.

"Yeah. Probably. Asked at least." House couldn't do it. Not anymore. It was Wilson's fault, anyway. But he was right. House had no right to risk a patient's life for his own benefit. Had he really fallen so far to have even considered it? He couldn't venture to answer that, not even to himself.

House knew he had to do something. To change something. He had to find a clinical trial, or at least a protocol that he could undertake on his own. Or design one himself. Something. Anything. House rose from with some difficulty from his chair and began packing up for the night. "So pizza and the Knicks? I'll even buy."

"You always buy. I'll take a pass. Got a hot date with a hooker." House continued packing his backpack, stuffing four large monographs and several journals into it.

"You OK, House?" House nodded in reply, distracted.

"Yeah. Fine." Wilson eyed him with curiosity. House grabbed his iPod from its dock and headed towards the door. House was not up for a Wilson lecture tonight. Wilson had been opposed to the Ketamine from the start. And when it went south, House could read Wilson's "I told you so's" from a mile off. He certainly did not need them now.

There were times when House appreciated Wilson's self-appointed role as ethical guardian. He had been right about the patient. House had been right all along that they needed to biopsy a nerve. Clearly there had been nerve damage. But a spinal nerve was unnecessary, and House had known that. And what if he had paralyzed her for life, only to find out that it was a tapeworm? It was a good call. Annoying, but a good call. Back safely behind his ethical barrier, House could see that, and couldn't pursue it further. He had no right.

There had to be a way, just not that one. "See you tomorrow, Wilson. Hooker awaits." House really didn't want Wilson shooting holes in his efforts. He knew the risks with experimental procedures, especially the more radical options: the options with the highest possible reward; the highest risk. Wilson was right. Life on immunosuppressant drugs; shortened life-span; constant monitoring. Always the potential for it not working or worse (or not worse depending upon how you looked upon it)—death. And in House's estimation, a completely acceptable risk/benefit ratio. A life of relative normality--no matter how short—priceless. But Wilson would see it differently, so the less he knew, the better—for now, anyway.

It had taken House months to get to this place, where he would feel again like seeking an answer to his own puzzle. He had fought through enough of the devastation, the anger and depression to even begin to give a damn whether he lived or died. Some days were better than others. On the worst days he considered the temptation of a loaded syringe to finally end the cycle of pain; on the best, the darkness lifted and he could see a future only hinted at last summer when he could run; hell, when he could walk.

The hospital's main floor was only dimly lit at 11:00 p.m. The clinic was closed for the night and visiting hours were long over. He observed the light on in the recesses of Cuddy's office as House strode with his broken gait past her door. He paused, noting the heaviness of his backpack, deciding whether he should stop; apologize for disrupting her evening with Mr. Eastern Lube; or, conversely, give her the chance to thank him for the rescue. He smiled inwardly as he quietly opened her door.


	12. Chapter 12

Transitions

Chapter 12

"You're here late." Cuddy turned to see House entering her office.

"Yeah, well. What else is there to do?" Cuddy cou;dn't keep the disappointment from her voice.

"Not seeing Mr. Wonderful tonight?" Cuddy glared, her eyes hard and laser like.

"Gee, House, I guess I have you to thank for that one, don't I?" She sneered the words at him, sarcasm dripping with molten lead.

"Look, if he was going to be put off by a simple…"

"There was nothing 'simple' about it. You crashed my date. Not once, but twice. What the hell is the matter with you. I…" She turned away from him, striding to her window. House could not help but notice the tremble in her voice as it trailed off into air.

House blew out a breath. "Cuddy…"

"Go away." Her voice was both resolute with anger and stained with tears. Regret merged with jealousy somewhere in House's psyche. Instead of leaving, he sat in front of her desk, waiting for her to turn around. "I told you to leave, not move in. Go away!"

"I'm sorry." House's voice was a mere whisper. He rarely apologized. To anyone. But it had to be said.

Cuddy laughed ruefully. "Do you know what he said to me?" She was standing, arms folded and leaning against the window. "He said when I talk to you, interact with you, I'm a different person. A better person, if I read him right. That I'm focused and engaged."

"He could tell all that from one direct meeting and overheard fragments of a second conversation? That's impressive. I say go for it, Cuddy. Sounds like he's your man."

"He thinks I thrive on conflict."

"That's what he thinks? It's probably true, but it's not all the story." House sat back, relaxed in the chair, a satisfied look on his face. "Not by a long shot. Do you like me, Cuddy? Turnabout and all that…"

"No. I don't." Simple, direct. And sometimes true, they both thought. House nodded, the self-satisifaction now gone from his eyes.

"Never?" She was lying. They both knew it. They had come too close, too many times; been there for each other on too many occasions, like an old amicably divorced couple always toying privately with the notion of reconciliation.

"Yeah, well, you never did answer my question the other night. What is it with you, House? Are you really that evil bastard who doesn't want anyone to be happy? Too lonely out there on your ledge? Afraid that if I'm happy; if Wilson's happy; if even Foreman were happy, for Chrissakes, there'd be no one around to rescue you when fell off it—or jumped off it?" She was still too angry, and even as she said them, she regretted her words. They were cruel and unnecessary. She, like House, knew where to poke that sharp stick. The had known each other too long and too well.

House had no response. There was a lot of truth to Cuddy's accusation. Cuddy watched as he wearily rose from his chair, not knowing how, or even whether, to try to make it right. She noticed the deep, dark smudges beneath his eyes; the exhaustion in his body language for the first time since he had walked in on her. She extended her hand out to stop him, but his back was already turned as he headed out the door and into the darkened corridor.

Cuddy knew better. Yes, he was occasionally cruel to her. And yes, he quite knew how to make her bleed. She remembered the last time he had spoken words later regretted. And they still stung, despite the apology later proffered and accepted. But he had been strung out then, desperately needing the pain meds she had refused him, and he had lashed out at her in the only way he knew how. House had thought that he was criticizing her for being too eager to compromise—patient care and his own care. In the aftermath, she realized that what he was saying had less to do with her aptitude for motherhood than with her inability to take a stand. But it hadn't stopped the hurt.

Cuddy contemplated pursuing him, but was too certain of a loud argument in the middle of the hospital's main foyer to act on the impulse. And despite the late hour, hospital staff would be around and highly curious. He could live with the hurt for a little while. It might do him some good, in fact, she reflected.

House slipped around the corner out a side exit. Certain that Cuddy would be right behind him, he knew that he couldn't face her. Everybody lies, but not always. And this time Cuddy told it like it was, hitting him with the force of a gunshot fired point-blank. And he should know.

House's bike, hauled out of storage as February became March, was parked in the first space in the doctors' lot. He raced from the lot, looking vaguely over his shoulder and down the darkened Princeton  
Streets he passed, the ghost of Michael Tritter at every corner; in every blind alleyway. He stopped the bike somewhere on the outskirts of town, suddenly lost. Not in a geographical sense, but lost, nonetheless: his apartment still bore the scars of the December madness; as did his relationship with Wilson. He keenly felt the loss of Cuddy as if his last rudder had been severed; his last remaining sail torn asunder. He had nowhere to go, adrift in the cold night. Alone. Lost.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" He was anxious, wired. She picked up on the third ring. A brief moment of admiration that Harrington had answered her own phone at this late hour.

"Dr. House?" Catherine was alarmed. He was clearly upset; his voice panicky and ragged. "Where are you?"

House glanced around. Good question. He had pulled off into a parking lot. "I…" Suddenly embarrassed at having phoned her, he couldn't find the words to cover. "I think I misdialed. Damn cell phones. I'm sorry…" He flipped the phone shut, just sitting on his bike for the time being, trying to recapture his bearings. Why had he gotten so unhinged about this. Words. Her words. She'd said worse to him before. And he had certainly said worse to her. This was stupid. Crazy. Calmer, House made his way back to Baker Street and his home.

House's phone vibrated against his hip as he dismounted the bike. It was Harrington. He wasn't sure what he would say to her. He'd cancelled his follow up appointment, calling her office and simply asking for a refill of the Vicodin while making his apologies. She had given him that out, and he gratefully accepted it. He'd reschedule soon. He'd promised the secretary. She was too good at getting him to talk about things better left unsaid, and right now, if he was certain of one thing, it was that he did not want to discuss those things. With anyone. Especially not with her. He ignored the phone. House was fairly sure that she would ring back, but maybe she'd wait until the morning, when he was less tired and he could relate a more rational explanation for his call.

"You have three messages. 'Hey, House. I thought you were staying in tonight. You know, hooker and all. Knicks lost. I'm drowning my sorrows. Call me. '" Despite his mood, House had to smile. Wilson, predictable as ever. They had hurt each other and their friendship over the past several months. The camaraderie was still there, but there still existed an edge to it. "'House, I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I feel terrible. I just…I'm not sure what's going on in that mind of yours. Why would you disrupt my date? Not once but twice; same night. Never mind. I'm coming over.' 'House, it's Catherine. Are you OK? Stupid question. Please call me. I think you need someone to talk to. I get this strong impression that you want to talk to me but aren't sure how now that you're not being held captive in a rehab facility. If you want to just talk we can just talk. But call me. Doesn't matter how late. OK?'"

House sighed. Turning around, he realized he wasn't alone. "How the hell did you get in? You taking lessons from Foreman? Don't you know breaking and entering is illegal in New Jersey?"

"I was worried. Wilson let me make a copy last month. When we were concerned that…" Cuddy was perched on the arm of the leather sofa. She had started a fire in the hearth and was now gazing into the flames. "We need to talk, House. Now."


	13. Chapter 13

Transitions

Chapter 13

"You can leave, Cuddy. Any time now. See? I'm fine. You had no need to break the law…again." House gestured grandly towards himself as he demonstrated how "fine" he was. His eyes told a slightly different story to her. She hadn't budged from the arm of the sofa, and he did have to admit that the fire warmed him as he stood beside it. "Thanks. For the fire, anyway."

"House…" Cuddy's voice was gentle again. Her anger seemed dissipated; replaced with something kinder. "We need to talk."

"Everyone wants to talk to me tonight. You, my shrink…" He knew Cuddy had heard Catherine's message played back on the machine. As if on cue, House's phone rang. "House," he replied automatically: a physician's reflex. Although his back was turned, he could feel Cuddy's eyes on him, paying close attention as he spoke, looking for clues. He hated this.

"I'm fine. I misdialed. Meant to hit a… Oh, that? … It was a figure of speech. I mis… OK. Fine. Whatever…" House sighed, clearly trying to end the conversation with a very persistent caller. "Look, I have company and I'm being rude to HER…. All evening. Right here. Crackling fire and all. … Tomorrow. Nine a.m." Great. He took a moment before turning to face Cuddy. "My mom. You know how mothers are." He tried laughing off the call. It wasn't working well. Cuddy knew too much.

"How did she allow it? Your mother, I mean."

"What?" House was momentarily confused by the question. The phone call? Him entertaining a woman in his apartment? Then it dawned on him. Crap. Their conversation of a couple weeks past. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the full weight of his exhaustion and…events…suddenly hitting. He was out of snarky comebacks and unable to withdraw from Cuddy's concerned gaze.

"Military discipline and all that. Her dad was army brass. Believe me, it wasn't that unusual. It's just the way it was. Still is. Probably."

"I don't buy that for an instant. And I can't believe that you're excusing it." House paced the room angrily.

"What the hell do you want me to say? My parents were monsters? They weren't. That I love my parents despite it all? Nice bumper sticker. But I don't. My dad can rot in Hell. My hate for him knows no bounds. My mother? She's a military wife and a military daughter. It's all she knows. Who am I to pop her bubble? I simply avoid them. Until some busybody like Wilson…or Cameron…or you decides I need to see them." He hadn't meant the outburst; regretted it. It would only mean that Cuddy would pursue the conversation. Something he did not want. At all. He was too tired; in too much pain. Like a marionette with the strings suddenly snipped, House fell down into the sofa and closed his eyes, defeated.

"House, if I'd known, I never would have…"

"That's kind of not the point." A deep sigh. "Can we just not talk about this right now. Maybe later. Like in 2054 or something." Cuddy had moved from her place on the sofa arm, settling into the comfortable leather cushions next to House.

"Fine." They sat in silence, House, eyes closed, feet propped on the coffee table; Cuddy nearby. House, finally calmer began to drift off.

"House…" Cuddy's voice, barely above a whisper, startled House to full wakefulness. He was slightly surprised to find her still there. If he didn't open his eyes, he mused, perhaps she would simply leave him in peace. "Why did you…why would you want to…" She was having difficulty finding a non-combative verb. She tried again. "Why did you…why were you….so curious…I mean, the other night…my blind date?" She had hoped that she conveyed the sentiment without accusation; without indictment of his possible motives.

House yawned, concluding, finally, that she would not be so easily gotten rid of. "Can't just accept the evil bastard argument and let it go at that?" He opened his eyes, finally returning her gaze. She could swear that she saw the glint of a smile somewhere within the depths of his expression.

"No," she replied with all seriousness. "I can't. Because you're not like that. Not really. So, no. I don't buy that it was just some cruel attempt to destroy my happiness."

"Fine. You know me so well, then, you tell me." House was tired of being psychoanalyzed by everybody: from Catherine Harrington right down to Foreman and Cameron. Even Chase.

Cuddy moved even closer to him. She tucked one leg beneath her and turned to face him. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure suddenly of her presence inside his personal space. Cuddy seemed not to notice his discomfiture at her nearness to him. He felt trapped, but intrigued. His instinct to run failed him; he waited.

"It's like I asked you the other night. Do you like me, House? I think the answer is yes. But for you, it's not so simple: liking someone; even loving someone. I've seen you in love, House. I've seen you in love when it's returned. And I've seen you in love when it's nearly destroyed you. I've seen you yearn and have that yearning answered; and I've seen it rejected. To 'like' someone, in that way…" She thought of Stacy, the one true love of his life, and how that love nearly destroyed him—and how it nearly redeemed him. She knew that he carried strong emotions just under his callused veneer. And that he was terrified of those emotions overwhelming him. She couldn't blame him, really.

She had tried to keep her voice steady: non-threatening and light. She rose from the sofa, giving him space. Giving him time to make of her words what he wished. She walked over to the fireplace, staring into the flames. Why, she wondered to herself, did this have to be so complicated? So convoluted?

"What about you?"

"What about me? And you haven't…" She stopped there, not wanting to back him further into the corner than she knew she had; scare him off completely. But this was a conversation long, long overdue.

"Do you 'like' me?" You were the one, Stacy had told him, so many years later. And what good had it done for him to know that? None. Not in the long run. Wasted time and energy; he'd given up too much of his soul in the aftermath of that disclosure.

"You're frustrating as Hell, House. You're impossible to read; impossible to know when you're serious. Sometimes, your just plain 'impossible.' I would trust you with my life, and with my death. You are more trouble than you are worth most of the time, but when you're not, you're like some dark, broken-winged angel, who's simply 'there' to make it alright for your patients; and for me. Like you?" She sighed, her emotions confused and overpowering. She turned and he was there, towering over her, despite the fact that he was hunched over his cane.

House hung his cane on the mantle, holding on briefly to steady himself. He needed both arms free. "Look. I'm sorry I broke into your blind date. He seems nice enough. I just couldn't seem to stop myself. Maybe it's my insatiable, but endearing, curiosity..."

"Yeah. Right." She looked away, both amused and irritated. House moved his hand to her face, turning her back towards him, and into his eyes. Facing him again, House drew her into a warm embrace. He was trembling, she noticed. Or was that her own body shivering at his touch?

He was kissing her: her forehead, the top of her head, the area in front of her ear. Soft, feathery, barely-there, but passionate. Almost desperate. His fingers trembled on her face and in her hair, holding her there, sure that she would run away if he let go. He arrived at her mouth, lost in the moment. As was she.

A moment. Only that. Senses recovered. His first. He backed away as he mumbled something slightly apologetic, his embarrassment acute. "I think you should probably go. Please." Leaving was something she really had no desire to do, but knew it was probably for the best.

"House…"

"I have no right to…" House retrieved his cane. He searched his bookcases: a distraction, a thing to occupy him. His eyes settled on a volume of Byron. "You deserve better than me." He had said it. "Mr. Eastern Lube. You should call him. Tell him that you'll lock me in my office the next time you have a date. He'll believe you, too."

Cuddy was sure that House believed it. But that's not what he was afraid of, she thought. He was afraid that she would leave him, or worse, betray his trust. That why he had stopped himself. He'd had a bad history with women. She suspected that when he gave it, he gave his heart fully and completely; which was why it was a rare gift. But that gift had been trampled on first by his mother and then by Stacy. Not once, but twice. He was reluctant to put himself out there again. Even for her.

Cuddy approached him, gently placing a hand on his back, summoning him to turn around; to face her. "Yeah, well…" she said as she took both of his hands in hers. "Lube guy is history anyway." She wanted to say more. To tell him that it was OK, what he did. That she wouldn't be opposed to more of the same. But there was time for that. Cuddy tugged at House's hands, leading him back to the sofa. He stopped her as he put an album on the turntable. They both drifted off curled on the big leather sofa to the extravagantly romantic strains of Mood Indigo.


	14. Chapter 14

Transitions

Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you all for reading and joining me on this ride. Chapter 14 ends this story (I almost ended it last chapter, but a good friend told me never to end with chapter 13, so I didn't.) I don't like writing two fanfics at once (I have other writing going on as well—not fanfic), and the material presented in Half-Wit beckons me in another direction (although not unrelated to Transitions).

Thanks to my friends at "HL: Too Handsome for Paperwork" for their inspiration and lively discussion as well as to Silja on TWOP for her medical expertise.

House was dreaming. It was a rare, but recurrent dream. It involved Cuddy, Saturday morning and the smell of fresh ground coffee; conversation and sex. The picture of domestic bliss he would never have again. For a long time, he had dreamed this dream about Stacy, a vague memory, just out of reach. Somewhere along the way, the image of the woman in the dream more and more resembled Lisa Cuddy. It wasn't unwelcome (and there's not much one can do about dreams, anyway), but somewhat disconcerting to him.

House opened his eyes, realizing that he had fallen asleep on the sofa. With Cuddy. He could, indeed, smell the aromatic beans, freshly ground, brewing in the kitchen. Sex. No, he was pretty sure that there had been no sex.

"You're up. Coffee's made. It' s nearly 10." House looked surprised, quirking an eybrow. He'd probably not slept that many consecutive hours in months.

"I could get used to this. Marry me. " Cuddy guffawed at the absurdity of House's statement.

"Yeah. I'm sure you could." House seemed to be in a light mood, given his state of mind the night before.

"Cuddy, look, about last night…" He'd started a sentence he wasn't sure how to complete. What about last night? Cuddy was right: House did "like" her. Enough so that the idea of her being with anyone else made him slightly queasy. Most of the time he didn't worry about it too much, but this time Mr. Eastern Lube had enough of what House didn't to make him… House didn't want to admit, even to himself, that he had been jealous. But he could puzzle out no better description for what he was feeling.

"I liked last night, House, how it ended, anyway." She was smiling. That particular smile, which had always viewed as beatific, always had the effect of disarming him completely. He returned the smile, or began to, until he tried moving. House could not prevent the gasp emerging from his lips as he tried to move his right leg. It felt as though in a vise grip. Normally he would grab his pills from the nightstand, take a couple and wait out the pain. His pills were in his jacket pocket near the front door; his perception—his fantasy of "normal" faded like the pop of a soap bubble.

"What's wrong?"

"My pills. Would you mind…?" Cuddy looked immediately concerned as she grabbed his jacket from the desk chair. She watched House desperately retrieve the bottle, shaking out two Vicodin with shaking hands, barely aware of her presence until he had swallowed them. Cuddy observed him as he waited, trying to steady his breathing; calm his leg as he furiously massaged it.

"House." It was almost as if she weren't there; didn't hear her. "House," she repeated. "Do you want me to get you anything? I can massage…" House looked up, finally aware of her again. He shook his head, wordlessly pleading with his eyes to let him deal with the crisis. Eventually his breathing returned to normal and he let go the death-grip on his right thigh. He glanced up at Cuddy momentarily before looking away, embarrassed that she had seen him like that.

"Sorry we slept all crumpled up like that. I should have realized it would have been hard on your leg." House shook his head.

"I could have been sleeping on a feather bed surrounded by clouds of down and it wouldn't have made any difference."

"This is…"

"Only difference was that my meds weren't right at my hand this morning…and that you were here…" House stared at spot somewhere on the far wall of the living room.

"I had no idea House. Why didn't you...? It would explain why you're always…"

"It's not your business. Or Wilson's. Or my team's. It's my life. It is what it is. Telling you, or Wilson… For what? For sympathy that doesn't matter? For pity that life as a fucking cripple is not as sexy as one might think…you know with all my inherent woundedness and all…? Believe me, I can barely keep the babes at bay."

"People care, House."

"Yeah, I forgot." The joy of half an hour past had evaporated. The lightness of House's mood had been trampled beneath the weight of his reality. The smoky light in his eyes from the evening before as he held her, wanting her. His pain momentarily, at the time removed to a vaguely recognizable position, was now replaced simple sadness as he struggled to rise from the sofa, keeping the pressure off his right leg.

House knew that Cuddy was watching him, observing him as he walked with a staggered gait to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, grateful for the barrier between them.

He emerged several minutes later, seemingly better. His composure was newly intact along with a distance that left Cuddy feeling isolated from him. He located his cane and made his way into the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee before returning to the living room. Cuddy wanted to say something about what had happened the night before, but couldn't find a way back in behind his barriers.

"House, last night…" He froze, about to take a sip from his oversized mug as Cuddy sat near him. He willed himself to look anywhere except into her eyes until absolutely ready; until his own eyes were glacial.

"Last night was a mistake. I can't… I don't want you in my life. Not in that way. You're just not my type. You asked me if I 'like' you. I don't." Of all the things she was expecting him to say, that wasn't even 100th on the list. She was stunned at his bluntness; at the iciness of his words. He rose from the sofa, stalking to the fireplace.

Recovering somewhat, Cuddy retrieved her coat and keys. "Fine. Then stay out of my life. Stop stalking me; stop trying to learn every infinitesimal detail of my personal life. Stop gawking at my ass. Stay out of my dates and my private life." Her voice quavered, trying to keep the tears out of her voice, ending what she hoped sounded like a tirade.

House did not turn around until he heard the door slam loudly behind him. He looked briefly at the coffee mug, taking one last sip of its seductive aromatic flavor, before hurling it against the far wall.

A/N—sorry to have ended this on a bit of a down-note, but I needed to clear the slate. What occurred in Half-Wit couldn't be reconciled with where this story was heading, and I so adored Half-Wit, that I needed to end whatever House and Cuddy might have been thinking in Transitions. If that makes any sense at all . Never fear, however, Half-Wit opened up all sorts of interesting possibilities for a different exploration of House and Cuddy's relationship and House's relationship with his other colleagues as well. Two more weeks till a new episode, so….who knows?


End file.
